


it’s harder to be good in here, then it is to starve and die

by nightofdean



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Animal Death, Arson, Blood and Injury, Canon Divergent, Child Abuse, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Depression, Eating Disorders, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Murder, Non-Chronological, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Overall A Lot of Violence, Prostitution, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sort Of, To be honest, Unreliable Narrator, Vomiting, black market stuff, meat - Freeform, religious trauma, sex scene but short, this is a dead dove folks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:15:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25475989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightofdean/pseuds/nightofdean
Summary: The war feels like it lasts forever, under hot summers, freezing winters, and wet downpours. It doesn't last forever, only three years, but memory has a funny way of making a day last weeks and a month feel like years. It has a way of wrapping around time, looping back and stretching from the past till it touches the future.That's at least what Francis is thinking, waiting in a courtyard, black wide brimmed hat blocking out the Philadelphia sun. It's what he's trying not to think as he tips his panama hat at a soldier, under the hot Korean sun.
Relationships: Father Francis Mulcahy & Katherine Mulcahy, Father Francis Mulcahy & OFC, Father Francis Mulcahy/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 19





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> there is some heavy content in this so please mssg me at transovid on tumblr if i missed a tag/warning

The air is wet and humid, thick as molasses and cloying against the back of his throat. Everything tasting bland and already falling apart from the humidity, always too dry or too wet. Sweat and dirt, clings to everything, somethings it should and those it shouldn’t.

He fingers his cross – fingertips drenched in sweat – they come away covered in red dirt. He dips them in holy water, says the last rites, the words vibrate in the thick atmosphere – kissing the flesh of the soldier before him, dead words for a dead soldier.

Before long he finishes the rites, and its pouring rain, and there is an outbreak in camp. It is also freezing, and his fingertips are hidden in the soft confines of mittens his sister sent abroad, he is listening to a confession. The rain pours down against the canvas ceiling.

It is unbearably hot; he can taste something metallic at the back of his throat – doesn’t know how it got there. Doesn’t know how long he’s been standing – waiting – in the O.R. for; as long as the last rainstorm he thinks. Quips fly past in the O.R. but not for long, as a wounded Korean pulls out a grenade pin –

And he’s walking out of the mess tent and it’s just after breakfast and Colonel Potter is talking to him and he can’t quite recall how he got there. A sliver of panic – half remembered images, it is suddenly unbearably hot and humid and simultaneously freezing cold – flashes through Francis, before he can acknowledge it Col. Potter does, “You okay there, Padre?”

Francis wants to say something, but what, he didn’t even know what was wrong. Was something wrong?

“I’m fine,” he says, half-convinced of the falsehood.

Col. Potter grunts, shakes his head, “For a second there you had that look, only seen it once – “the old soldier says, partially to himself – Francis doesn’t hear the rest as it's drowned out in percussive shelling.

He’s pulled out of the latrine, but all Francis can recall is the sweet taste of freshly baked pie and how terribly sinfully good it had tasted, and how they had cried at the dinner table. Begging to leave when they weren’t hungry at supper, and forced them to eat anyway, and they puked it all up.

Francis still didn’t understand what they had done wrong.

His ears rang from the shelling, and he had the urge to vomit, he said as much. Hawkeye said, it was probably the concussion, Francis didn’t think so, mouth tasting too sweet like thick honey and milk.

Francis heaved –

And he was slicing into the skin of an oxygen starved soldier, fingertips spreading the white muscle of the trachea, distantly he thought, _what am I doing here?_ and _my Tom Mix knife is covered in blood._ He paused to say a prayer, mind rabbiting that old dance of fear and revulsion, and thanked God for _these bountiful gifts for which we are about to receive,_ over the soon to be cut flesh of the choking soldier. As if the soldier laid on the litter was a lamb to be slaughtered – Radar vomited – and he’d just caught it - Francis cut into the pale oxygen deprived flesh, blood gurgled up, it was hot, he fought down the urge to vomit.

Francis heaved, vomiting all over Hawkeye’s shoes, the bitter taste of vomit overcoming the taste of stew and sweet crabapples in his mouth. Hawkeye rubbed a soothing circle over his back, as his stomach muscles contracted and Francis expelled the contents of his entire stomach, until all that came out was yellow bile.

Distantly amidst the episode he wondered if Hawkeye would be mad that he ruined his shoes, but the anger never came. Hawkeye only gripped his arm steadily and lead him – still dazed – to post OP to recover.

There is a water shortage in the camp and there is a persistent taste in the back of his throat of metal and dirt. Francis takes a drink of warm milk, it is nearly spoiled, it cloys at the back of his throat thickly, the scent lingers in his nose. When Nurse Harris hugs him, Francis can still smell the spoiled milk on him and wonders if Gail can too – the hug lasts too long, too much, and he reminds himself to not take too much.

Francis ends the hug, it was nice warm, tells Gail he can’t give what she wants.

She leaves the tent, books in hand – Francis looks at the milk inert on the desk, at the yellow film collecting on the surface, it _is_ spoiled. The realization turns his stomach, the smell, the idea of spoilt milk curdling in his stomach in the heat. Closes his eyes, resists the urge to purge.

The air is hot and humid and smells like leather and the sweat of athletes, it is weight day. The day before a match, he hasn’t had much to eat or drink besides bread and water, there is a bucket beside the scale. Francis stands on the scale as an old man moves the miniature weights and calculates the number, the man grunts and gestures to the bucket. Francis reads the sign for what it is, he is close, almost there.

He leans over – looks slightly away from the bottom of the bucket, and sticks two fingers down his throat as far as they’ll go until he triggers his gag reflex –

And vomits into the bucket.

Francis does it cleanly in one shot, not getting it everywhere, just like spitting it out. The old man rearranges the weights and he met the weight requirement. Francis grins slightly, not being able to fight would mean no money, which meant no rent, and food.

He’s standing in the latrine, staring down the hole that pretended to be a toilet. Stomach rolling, with the scent of spoiled milk hanging in his nose, too sweet crabapples clinging to his tongue, and something metallic at the back of his throat. Francis closes his eyes, tells himself – at least I tried not too – and sticks two fingers down his throat, and almost cries when he needs three fingers to make himself gag. At least he tells himself, I can’t taste what I can’t have.

Major Houlihan asks him for help with a patient that is refusing it, Francis reaches over to help and calm the man down. A fist swings, Francis’ jaw bursts into pain that prickles outward the longer he sits stunned, he had only been trying to help. Francis punches the man back, not caring for the way the soldier’s head pops back violently into the dirt. Or the way it sent painful shocks up his arm from the poor angle.

Francis’ knuckles redden in a way they didn’t when he wears gloves, they were a pure red from skin to skin contact. He always thought official in the ring matches were tamer, but perhaps that was a more sanitized cleaner version of what he was actually doing. Francis felt dirty somehow for it.

Told himself he was teaching character – _personality_ – but what did he know of it. What did violence teach anyone, but fear of the next blow?

Hawkeye rubs circles on his back again – or is he still – and tells Francis he just made a mistake. Francis wonders if he will ever stop making mistakes. Feels like less than nothing as his stomach clenches in painful knots and his entire body suddenly feels like it’s on fire.

Tells Hawkeye something about going to his tent to cry – thinks he did - only remembers clutching his stomach and vision narrowing to a pinpoint as he breathed heavily. Vaguely realizing something was wrong, that something was happening to him, but all he could think of was the nail in the floorboard as he breathed heavily, own nails digging into sides painfully.

It fades as all things do eventually, and he shoves it down for appearances sake – for the camp. Can barely eat despite his own hunger, the site of food disgust and turns his stomach, says Grace – _for these bountiful gifts we are about to receive,_ over the gurgling blood and cut flesh of soldiers – and vomits. Francis didn’t think it was possible for a prayer to be ruined, but it was, he could barely get the words past his lips now. Instead silently staring hands folded, faking it.

Something Francis thought he would never do but appearing weak in front of his flock was not an option. He eats what he can, shoves three fingers in his mouth, gags and goes on. Helps in the O.R., helps at the orphanage, helps the nurses, performs last rites over and over and over.

Francis performs Mass on Sunday and takes Eucharist, he nearly gags out of habit, the taste acidic from the wine that accompanied it. Klinger sees it, already half standing out of concern. The Eucharist is sitting in his mouth still – back in his mouth now – and he can’t figure out if he should spit it out now or if he should swallow it anyway.

The lines blur in his mind, hand covering his mouth to hide it, Klinger must see the indecision on his face, the man looking pained just from having seen. Francis’ mouth waters from not having swallowed in over a minute and the decision is made for him as he swallows it, stomach bile and all. Francis closes his eyes – Klinger looks away – at the taste of bitter bread and bile.

Finishes up the service, stumbling over simple parts until finally it’s over. Klinger doesn’t say anything as they pick up, silence thick and pregnant with the unspoken.

He changes his mind in his tent, fist jammed against his stomach, forcing the Eucharist out into his palm. Francis’ sees the chunky dissolved soup and _something_ in him, something essential, cracks a fissure down his mind.

I can’t taste what I can’t have.

Francis palm clenches into a fist around the consecrated bread, vision narrowing and he’s clutching his chest, stomach clenching painfully. He’s breathing so hard and he can’t stop it, and he feels like he’s going to die just for purging Christ, and he didn’t mean to, but he had to, he just had to.

Thinks he might be crying, hot liquid is scorching his face, but he doesn’t care, only curls up and pushes his face against his knees, makes himself smaller, bites one knee to keep the scream at the back of his throat from escaping. Can’t keep from rocking back and forth as his fist squeezes and the wet remains of Christ spilled out of his hand and the taste of spoiled milk clung to the back of throat.

* * *

He and Kathy are in the park playing just after school, kicking fallen crabapples and throwing rocks into the distance, a bird squawks in protest. Well, Francis is, Kathy is on the court if the sound of hollow rubber reverberating against cement is any indication. Throwing rocks is not the fun he thought it would be, Francis sits on the pavement trading rocks for watching his sister dribble the ball.

Folds his legs crisscross, head in hands, blows a raspberry loudly, and announces “I’m bored.”

Kathy continues dribbling, trying to perform one of those nifty tricks the pros do on the nickelodeons. Doesn’t look up as she answers, “Find something to do then.”

Francis groans in frustration, “Let me play,” he says, whines.

“No,” and Kathy continues, practicing her trick.

Francis gets up, tries to steal the ball, but Kathy is bigger than him and holds the ball away.

“Hey! That’s cheating,” Francis says, voice rising in pitch, makes a grab for the ball but Kathy pulled away again.

“Nuh-uh, keep away doesn’t count,” and she raised the ball above her head, now he really couldn’t reach it.

Francis frowned as he tried to reach but stopped as he got an idea.

“I’ll tell ma.”

“Don’t you dare, you little snot,” she said, shoving him back.

“I will, I’ll tell.”

Tell ma, that after school Kathy took her skirts off and underneath, she wore men’s boxers and played basketball even when ma told her it wasn’t allowed. Kathy snarled at him, tucked the ball under her arm, “I don’t even want to play anymore anyway.”

And she stomped off too the forest, Francis knew she was going to hide the ball in the nook of one of the trees. He suddenly didn’t want to play ball anymore, didn’t like it when his sister was upset because of him.

Waited for several minutes until Kathy came back with a handful of crabapples grinning like she’d caught the canary. Francis looked at her dubiously.

“Here try it,” she handed him a crabapple, he took it small hand barely gripping the apple, and bit a chunk out.

And spit it out, “Ew, too sweet,” he said.

“I’m going to make a pie, Francis.”

He stared at her, trying to imagine his sister cooking anything but cereal and toast. “You can’t make pie outta crabapples,” he said, knowingly in the tone of a child that has just figured out that a little man doesn’t live in the radio.

“You can so, I learned it in the girl scouts,” Kathy said, setting her shoulders back in pride.

Francis didn’t say anything at that just in case she could actually make pie and he wasn’t completely against the idea of crabapple pie.

“If you say so, sis.”

Kathy pulls her skirts back on, picks up her knapsack, shoves the apples inside. Francis picks up his bag too, Kathy holds his hand before crossing the street, and they head back to their apartment.

They make a huge mess cooking, the kitchen is covered in flour and its hours before ma gets home to reheat last nights stew, but they don’t care because their full up with pie and too sweet crabapples.

“What the hell is all this?” Ma says, from the door, face wrinkled with frustration, anger drawing deep lines in her face.

They both jumped in unison with familiar notes of anxiety and guilt swirling in their stomachs. The knowledge that they had done _something_ wrong, hung in their minds. Ma sends him out of the room, with a sharp gesture down the hall and he scampers out of the kitchen, sits on the bed in desperate worry of the inevitable.

Hours pass, the sun dips below the horizon, and his stomach is sick with anticipation and all he’s had to eat is dessert food and no dinner. The front door slams open and closed and now he thinks he understands.

His sister calls him out of the bedroom, tells him dinner is ready, he can smell the broth. Francis sits at his chair, Kathy sits gingerly, Francis tries to make it seem like he doesn’t notice but he’s only a kid and she sees him looking. Kathy gives him a reassuring look; he doesn’t feel reassured.

Pa sits at the table, at the head, there’s oil and dirt on his hands and face – as there will be on Francis but he doesn’t know that yet – they join hands and say Grace over the left over stew, broth thickened with now spoilt milk and meat.

He tries to make it go down, but the stench is ripe and threatens to overcome his senses, the crabapples were too ripe and too sweet. He vomits the whole of the meal – Kathy pukes from the site of his puke and now they’ve wasted supper.

And now Ma and Pa are arguing, and it fills the entire apartment with a tension that twists his stomach further, Kathy escorts him to the bathroom and cleans him up, parents too busy arguing to notice. She wipes his face with a warm cloth and rubs circles on his back and tells him it was only an accident and that everything will be fine.

The latrine is shelled, and a hand is rubbing his back and he’s just vomited, and Hawkeye is telling him it’s all okay, but he doesn’t hear a word of it.

Kathy is talking to him, he’s in the bathroom sitting on the edge of the tub, Kathy smiling genially, “It’s not your fault, no one’s mad at you.”

Francis finds it hard to believe, amidst the sound of a scraping chair and banging cabinets, but he wants to. Even if he finds it unfair that adults get to smash things and yell for no reason and not explain why when it made his stomach hurt for no reason. Francis wonders why people can’t be nice to each other, even when they were married and loved each other.

He’s just punched a man for rejecting help and Francis’ hand stings and a singular thought swamps him, _dear God, I think love might be violence,_ as he cuts into the flesh of a soldier because he wanted to prove something. Francis thanks God for the opportunity of this _bountiful meal_ and later gags on three blood-soaked fingers as he threw up the whole of Christ.

Francis cleaned his hands of the soldier’s blood – his sister looked at him, clear blue eyes wide like a doe eyed cow as she handed him the soap, blood trickled into the sink swirling down the drain. He’d cleaned his hands, but Francis was still left with his hands, with the whole of himself. Kathy broke eye contact gaze dragging into the living room, he felt himself follow her gaze despite himself.

“I was gonna be a champ,” she said tonelessly, “I just got a scholarship.”

Pa hadn’t moved in an hour; a wide arc of blood was spreading across the floor. A foot away Ma’s shotgun lay inert, unused but no less covered in red for it. He looked away, gaze falling on Kathy, the side of her face was bruised, lip split.

“We need to go. Leave.” He said, dazed, speaking the words before it slipped away.

Kathy nodded, slowly looking at her brother, “He wasn’t the same after,” she said, putting enough emphasis on _after_ that he got her meaning. After the war, after their brother’s death, after everything.

Francis didn’t think there was a before or after, only now.

Jesus Christ was in Korea a mile behind the front lines, and Francis rather thought he pulled off a convincing job of it. How well he could quote from scripture was beside the point, spiritual counselling was beyond the soldier. To be so traumatized that the man’s spirit went past the point of being broken instead circling back around to some kind of twisted enlightenment.

Francis said as much to Sidney – sitting in the VIP tent, cigarette held between shaking fingers – the psychiatrist chuckled amused at the notion.

“Enlightenment, that’s interesting,” Sidney, tipped his head in acknowledgment of the theory. “Do you think perhaps it was his justification?”

Francis leaned back, mulling it over, the cigarette burned “Justification, for what?”

“Suffering, of course,” Sidney said, sitting in a chair, Francis recognized his posture as the one Sidney would use with a patient, he decided to ignore it for now. Francis took a deep drag of the cigarette, it burned his lungs, he exhaled a cloud of smoke.

“Hmmm, the idea that all your suffering is meant to be _is_ alluring, I guess.”

“I think your missing a key element of the story, Francis,” Sidney said, as if to a particularly dense child.

He leaned forward, elbows on knees, “You mean the part where God sends his Son to die on the cross, the similarities weren’t lost on me, Sidney.”

“So, the boy, wanting his suffering to make sense in a world where nothing makes sense, fashions himself a new identity and who should he become, but Jesus Christ where everything, from beginning to end is all figured out.”

Francis put out the cigarette against his boot, ran a hand down his face, “And God, sends him to fight in a foreign country and suffer and die and go back to a country that will never be the same.”

Sidney stared at Francis, expression impassive, “We’re not talking about God anymore.”

“I know,” Francis said, and quieter as if in prayer, “I know”

* * *

It’s unbearably hot and freezing cold at the same time, there is a persistent taste of iron and metal at the back of his throat. He fingers his cross and the sweat on his fingertips comes back dripping in blood. The cross is shining silver, and all he’s ever had are his hands.

Looks at his hands they are clean, bloodless, but he knows better. He is screaming and crying as hands clutching the shotgun upside down, bashing the stock into a face he refuses to look into but he looks anyway and it’s not his father but Radar O’Reilly and he’s killing him, the poor boys face is gone and he’s vomiting in the mess hall but it’s not vomit but spoiled milk and stew and pie and the entire MASH is watching his shame as its expelled from his stomach.

Faces of open disgust stare in at him and it just won’t end and finally the worst of all comes out like a slug slimy and looking like dissolved crackers and Francis sobs thought he was vomiting Jesus Christ but really it was himself as he looks at his own dead body at his feet, face smashed in.

Francis wakes up in screaming in blind panic convinced of the dream’s false reality, someone bolts into the tent, the haze of the dream still clings to the edges of his vision. Whoever it is looks just like his father for long enough and he isn’t thinking and not caring when his fist connects with a face, anything to make it go away, a voice yelps and runs out for “help”.

He’s sitting up when “help” arrives in the form of Hawkeye and Sidney – still at the MASH after a week of rest – Hawkeye almost bursts in the tent but seems to remember himself as Sidney gently holds him back.

Sidney looks Francis up and down, sees the faraway gaze, and dismisses Hawkeye with a “triage later” and “I’ll call if I need you.” Correctly surmising that Hawkeye’s high energy would be detrimental.

Sidney doesn’t sit down, standing across from his cot near the entrance, a sign that if he needs to, Sidney will leave.

“Who did I hurt?” he asks, peeling that band-aid off.

“He’s fine,” Sidney answers, and adds, “No one blames you.” Enough men in the campus had nightmares, thrashing in the throes of fear, knew not to hold lashing out against anyone. They all had their ways, some merely jolted themselves awake, others needed a gentle nudge and they were back to sleeping calmly, others – others had to be approached from a different angle.

Francis mouth twists, “Who was it?” he persists.

Sidney answers a question with a question, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” he said, clenching and unclenching his hand, it stung madly.

Sidney watched as the priest examined his hand, he didn’t think he noticed how many times or how long he’d been staring. A pack of cigarettes sat on the nightstand, at least, Sidney thought those would go a long way to moving the conversation forward.

“Who was it?” Francis asked again, like a dog with a bone.

Sidney let the question go unanswered – trying something out – and doled out two cigarettes one for each. Francis took his mechanically placing it between his lips, as Sidney clicked the Zippo and lit it. Francis inhaled deeply, shuddering as he did so, eyes shutting as he held the tobacco in his lungs. Sidney recognized it for what it was, the longer the tobacco sat in the lungs, the more potent the effects.

Francis exhaled, the tent filled with two lungful’s worth of smoke, Sidney propped the door open, letting some escape.

Sidney ventured again, “You want to talk about it?”

Francis shifted, sitting on the edge of the cot now, “No, no not really,” looking at the seam between the floorboards and canvas walls, fixated on a nail sloppily installed in the floor.

Sidney grimaced, he would have liked the priest to open up, but didn’t want to force it. Nightmares were a regular occurrence in units like the 4077th, Sidney hated to do it but let the matter drop.

“Who was it?”

“It was Radar, says he forgives you though,” Sidney replied.

_Of course, he did,_ Francis thought.

* * *

He’s standing just outside Saint Theresa’s orphanage, can hear a baby howling in pain as a Red Cross worker attempts to clean the cut on the infant’s forehead. Sister Margarite watches by his side, saying something about how this one won’t be able to stay on account of the baby being mixed. The infant can’t stay with the Red Cross either the frontline aid organization unable to provide shelter to a homeless babe.

There is one option Sister Margarite says, but it can’t be abused. The monks are reclusive and don’t like to be disturbed, the chance of them moving is high.

Before he knows it, Francis is ringing a bell and dumping a baby into a metal ‘cradle’ like trash. Sister Margarite notices his discomfort, says, “It’ll be fine, they’ll take care of him.”

Tells BJ the same thing, “This is how it’s done.”

Hopes, the soldier-father can’t hear the uncertainty in his voice, still doesn’t know what happened to the first, unnamed infant he had brought to the monastery. Or the second, the third, he had to stop counting.

Francis never stopped counting.

BJ scowls at him, gets back into the jeep. Doesn’t know why he let so many come along, guilt, maybe he needed witnesses to this, just in case.

This is how it’s done, is what he tells himself when he’s sitting in Rosie’s bar waiting to be approached by whoever oversaw the black market – looking for their stolen penicillin.

It’s what he tells himself when an MP with an atrocious accent, Muldoon, sits beside him orders “coffee” and drinks scotch out of a mug.

“Ay, chap, you don’t happen to know the owner of this fine piece of fabric, do ya?” says the MP, holding Klinger’s skirt on his lap concealing the fact he had it at all, only revealing it to Francis.

Muldoon grins at the expression on Francis’ face, at the look of recognition, “So you’re the little rat, that stole my money.”

Lifesaving penicillin, he thinks weakly as Muldoon jumps up grabbing the back of Francis hand and slamming Francis’ face into the sticky counter, “Where is it?” the man yells, spittle flying.

“Gone,” he grinds out, peering up at Muldoon from peripherals.

“Fucking mistake, Dago,” and something cold and metallic pushes into his temple, a click echoes in the now empty bar, Rosie wisely vacating into the backroom.

“Ya got two options; one I blow your brains out, two you get my money back,” said the MP, accent rendering his assault cartoonish in Francis’ mind, the man’s grip was weak and soft.

Francis elbowed the man in the ribs with all the force he had, Muldoon crumbled over, letting go of the priest, got up released from the hold.

“Let me take that, please,” said Francis, injecting all politeness into his tone, peeling Muldoon’s fingers off the pistol taking it from the MP. Turned the gun this way and that, not sure how to unload it, “I don’t really know how to use one of these, hope I don’t shoot anyone.”

Muldoon groaned still in pain from the blow, held out his hand as if in help. Francis held the gun out of reach, almost waving it around, Muldoon gasped in alarm.

“No, you don’t point weapons at people and get them back,” he said chidingly, pulled a rickety chair out for the gasping MP to sit down. Francis tipped his head, invitingly, “Sit.”

Muldoon sat, Francis took a seat at the bar, “Now what was it, uh, get my money back or you’ll blow my brains out. That’s rude, my son.”

Muldoon, scoffed, “Son, what are you, my dad?”

Francis tapped his lapel, “Father, to you,” he said. 

Muldoon’s face paled, he hadn’t noticed, man’s expression cycling through several emotions.

Francis took advantage of the man’s momentary guilt, “Why don’t we call it even then, and instead of, uh, using this,” he waved the gun, “and I get your dirt money no blood necessary.”

Muldoon managed to wrangle his guilty conscience, threatening a priest was low on the man’s list of sins as it was, and responded, “Hell no, now I’m really going to beat the fuck outta you, fucking piece of shit dago.”

Francis’ eyes widened, so this was how it was going to be, he had offered an olive branch and he got a _this._ He only raised his voice by a little bit, like he would in Mass, projecting without shouting, it had the desired effect, “You know what I lied, I do know how to use this.”

Muldoon paled as white as the corporal on the altar, Francis clicked the barrel of the pistol out inspected it – it was full, that was dangerous. He said as much, “You should take better care of your gun, this has dirt in it.”

Closed the barrel, it clicked shut with a satisfying sound. Pointed the pistol at the far wall, at a poster with a Red Cross pin up on it, looked down the length of his arm and the sight and pulled the trigger.

A deafening bang echoed in the room, smoke filled the room before dispersing, the bar smelled like gun smoke. Both of their ears rang momentarily, Francis worked his jaw to get it to stop, Muldoon was hunched over no doubt thinking the bullet was for him.

“Look,” said Francis, waving in the direction of the wall, a little smirk pulling at his lips.

Muldoon turned slowly like he was on the frontlines or on the wall about to get shot, he looked, the poster had a hole in it, the Red Cross nurse had a bullet right between her eyes. Muldoon swallowed thickly, and said, “Oh my God.”

Francis rolled his eyes, being a priest could be so thankless, walked over to Muldoon and dangled the gun at him, giving it back.

“My offer,” he said.

“Accepted,” said Muldoon.

He exited the bar took a sharp left around the corner into the alley and kicked the first empty crate he saw, sending it careening further down the alley. It crashed against the wall, sending splinters flying into the air.

A mantra of _fuckfuckfuckfuck,_ ran through his head and even louder, _I can’t do this,_ but he had to because if it wasn’t him it was Klinger with a gun stamped against his temple and Muldoon breathing down his neck. And if he had one job in the camp it was protecting his flock from bullshitters like Muldoon.

He had to do this. This was how it was done.

The alley smelled like piss, vomit, and sex and the back of his throat tasted of something metallic and not unlike gun smoke and oil. He threw up violently, adding to the larger waste of the war – police action – in one alley, behind one bar, next to one MASH, five miles behind the front lines.

He’s washing his hands in the kitchen sink, Kathy is watching him carefully, holding a cold pack from the freezer. She looks in the living room, he does too despite himself, and sees nothing. He sucks on his teeth and tastes blood, Kathy’s face is bruised, she hands him the pack silently, arm slicing through a ray of light.

“We should go before he gets back,” she says, steel blue eyes fixed on the wall behind him. It’s like she hadn’t said anything at all, Francis was thinking the same.

They manage to scrounge up what money they both have, him from boxing winnings, her from working at the shirtwaist factory. It’s enough for a month rent in a new apartment far away from home. Kathy picks up another job, he starts working at the local CYO along with weekly matches. Soon enough they realize they can’t do this forever.

“I think,” she says, from the worn couch, “we should join the Jesuits.”

Francis’ head snaps up, from the hand he’s wrapping, “What?”

“I said –,”

“I know, fuck, but ma said to never -,”

“Christ, Francis, I know what ma _said,_ but she’s dead, died in that damn fire, and the boss at the factory keeps locking the doors an’ I keep lookin’ and what if I died in the same kind of fire,” Kathy hiccoughs, lower lip trembling, “and you keep coming back beat to hell.”

Francis looks at his wrapped hands, he couldn’t think about this right now. “I have a match tonight,” he says and picks up a bag by the door and leaves.

He loses that night, returns home skin split over his eye, says nothing as Kathy cleans the wound and bandages it.

“Okay,” he says, and louder like he was trying to convince himself, “Okay,”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> introspection on sex, death, and meat

A wounded Korean pulls out a grenade pin, and he’s on the sanitized floor of the O.R. searching for a piece of metal so small he must get on his hands and knees to find it. And Hawkeye is singing a lullaby ( _papas gonna get you a diamond ring)_ to calm the patient and his mind is rabbiting _(and if that diamond don’t shine)_ the lullaby doing nothing for his nerves, _(papa’s gonna get you a rocking horse)_ because it doesn’t calm the Korean patient down at all if anything it only confuses the man more, like Hawkeye, Winchester, and the other surgeons were mocking him.

( _and if that rocking horse don’t rock, papa’s gonna buy you a -)_

And he sees it, the damn pin right beneath Hawkeye’s boot, and he is simultaneously relieved and enraged by the absurdity of it. The tension of the moment snapping out of him at once, “I found it,” he shouts, relief.

“Where is it?” Hawkeye says, still trying to sing the lullaby.

“Under your boot, if you’d move your goddamn foot already,” Francis says, tone short, relief replaced by aggravation. He was not going to die because Hawkeye put his foot in it, as usual.

Francis is standing just outside the O.R. the weather unusually mild, holds out a hand beckoning to Klinger making a promise he wasn’t entirely sure he could keep, if only the man would give him the grenade.

He’s offering sanctuary to a scared soldier who wants nothing but to go home, not even sure he _can_ but refuses to in all, but name call the mess anything but God’s house. The Command Chaplain says he can’t give sanctuary in a mess tent, because it isn’t a real Church. The news tastes bitter on his tongue, like bureaucracy, of course five miles behind the front lines’ sanctuary is suddenly a foreign concept. Bites his tongue though, knows when he’s being handled, and gives the bad news to the soldier.

A rifle is pressed to his chest for his effort, and while the Command Chaplain believes a mess tent in Korea can’t be a Church, he does. The soldier’s hands are shaking from fear as the boy shakily loads the weapon, illustrating that he means business. Distantly he hears, shouting and a command to “get down!” and “take cover”, a metallic clatter echoes and what sounds like a table overturning. Several guns cock in succession and the MPs waiting outside take aim, Col. Potter shouts at them to “Calm down.”

There is a rifle pressed against his chest, the scared soldier gripping the gun trembles, and he’d only wanted to go home. Now, Francis had made a promise he couldn’t keep, and he was being threatened at gun point in his _church._

He was tearing a rifle out of a soldiers shaking hands under the flimsy ceiling of a Church – mess tent – and he was searching for a grenade pin, as he beckoned Klinger to give him a grenade making a promise he wasn’t entirely sure he could keep.

One day he feared, these promises would blow up in his face.

He’s standing outside of an abandoned schoolhouse, where just hours before he left fifty dollars that should have gone to the orphanage, and now he was pushing a cast iron bell aside so he could dig out much needed medical supplies and food. As he did so he could see a bullet sized dent on the bells curved front, he looked across the field into the dense foliage hiding the sniper he knew was hidden within the trees.

Francis takes a deep breath, keeping his mind off the fact that he was being watched through a scope, and unsecured the supplies from underneath the top of the bell and loaded them onto the back of the jeep.

The supplies are dropped off at the orphanage and he should be going but the orphanage is much calmer than the MASH, even if it’s full of a dozen screaming children. It’s still better than a camp full of adults acting like a dozen screaming children.

He takes a break outside, Sister Margarite joins him holding a bottle of wine, she lifts it in invitation, he shrugs indifferent. The bottle is opened with a satisfying ‘pop’, Sister Margarite tips the bottle back, gripping it by the neck, and takes a long pull.

Francis raises a brow, “Bad day?” he inquires taking the bottle as she passed it to him.

“Something like that,” she responded, wiping her mouth clean.

He takes a swift gulp from the bottle, tasting Sister Margarite’s lip gloss on the rim, it tasted vaguely of cherries. Francis handed the bottle back, she refused it, waving a hand, he took another pull.

“And you?” she said.

“Hmm, pretty bad,” he answered, taking another drink, starting to feel the beginning of a buzz. Licks his lips, tastes the faux cherry lip gloss again and before he knows it, they’re stumbling off somewhere private and it’s not even romantic it’s just two people using each other to get off, all teeth and gums and grunting and groaning. The kind of sex where both people feel like shit afterwards by the sheer fact that both felt used but refused to talk about it.

* * *

Francis is standing in Col. Potter’s office and he’s never felt more worthless than he does now as the old soldier tears into him.

“The hell do you get off working with those scoundrels, you coulda been killed, and right under my nose and in my MASH to boot,” the Colonel took a shuddering breath, face blood red from anger, he sat down heavily, looked at the pile of paperwork on his desk, “Damnit, Padre, get out my office before I have a mind to court martial you.”

Francis turned around stiffly leaving the office and through the double doors, but not before running into Radar standing by the door, the kid jumped back wisely as Francis pushed past and out the clerk’s office.

The 4077th is out of anesthetic and he’s standing outside of an abandoned school house, a bullet ricochets loudly against the shell of a cast iron bell, Klinger’s skirt is trapped under the bell but they have no time to go back for it as a bullet kicks up dirt behind them.

Francis tries not to let Hawkeye and Major Houlihan’s disquiet about the black market get to him, as he offers his help, in truth Francis had already left a note and some hundred dollars for anesthetic. He’d done plenty without the Colonel’s permission, this time he wasn’t so much asking as letting the CO know.

He has heard so many confessions that they all overlap into the same thrumming chord of pain that sits right above his brow, throbbing. Soldiers rotating in from the front unburdening themselves of all the weight they carry, washing it off in the showers, and in the confessional.

None of them want to speak about it when they do, yet come anyway, wanting someone to listen to their stories. The actual story – not the ones they will tell in the O club, overblown tales meant to impress the ladies – no the confession (not a story) is bare and full of truth, at least a version of the truth he has to believe is the _truth._

Offers absolution in the form of prayer – surgery – on invisible wounds, some self-inflicted, others like shell shock of the soul, gaping things that festered with hate and cruelty, and manifested in the world as obscene acts of evil. Things that told to him, rang in his ears, and turned his stomach with the smell of dead flesh and spoilt milk.

Is eating the tough meat provided by the mess hall, chewing and chewing, jaw working, and he chews steak in the Swamp – with a twinge of worry it could be Friday in the Lental season – but it isn’t Friday and, he isn’t in the Swamp and he’s vomiting Christ and somewhere a soldier is shooting a calf just because he can.

The soldier tells Francis when he asks “Why?” and who wouldn’t ask, the Marine answers, “Because I could,” and the Marine, a young boy, laughs and looks at him as if he’s waiting for a slap on the shoulder, like he wants Francis of all people to approve. He can’t, only grimaces, and sees what damage the war has on the soul, what manner of rotting thing it transforms into.

Wants to believe it hasn’t changed him, but it’s the cold season and he’s seen the surgeons, use the wounded as fire pits – cutting into living flesh and use the body heat as warmth, in the freezing weather. Seen the steam rise from the open cavities the surgeons cut open, and he wants to be disgusted – _is_ despite himself – as they rub their hands together and warm themselves.

Finds himself these days easily making allowances for the obscene things that take place amidst the war – police action – where before he would’ve been disgusted at the mere sight of it. Knows now the innards of the human body are warmer than expected and knows that blood is both warm and redder when inside the body then it is outside. He knows how to cut the throat to enable someone to breathe again, knew how to punch someone in the throat to _stop_ them breathing.

He’s chewing languidly on a piece of steak, in a tent known as the Swamp, in Korea five miles behind the front lines, and a young soldier has just told Francis, that he shot a calf because he could. And he’s protecting his flock from the horrors of the war, the degradation of the soul. Francis is retrieving penicillin from beneath a school bell and he’s telling BJ that “This is how it is,” as he delivers an infant to a Catholic monastery.

Makes a promise to Klinger, holding a grenade to his chest, that he can keep the red neckerchief and wear whatever he wants, makes a promise to pay for taking penicillin that was already stolen, makes a promise to God. Made a promise to protect his flock, but the steak in his mouth is bloody and he fears his flock never needed protecting and he was never a shepherd. 

Rosie wakes him in the dead of night, and he is being herded to the back of the bar, crates of wine and beer, and sugary sweet Ne-hi crowd the room leaving space for only a small cot. A young Korean woman is laid out atop the cot, she appears unconscious, dress askew, bruises bloom on her inner thighs a deep angry purple, quickly turning a sickly green.

“Padre, this is Soon-Lee,” Rosie said, voice grave as she knelt beside the young woman – girl really, Francis thought, the longer he observed the round youth of Soon-Lee’s face.

“You must help,” Rosie said, she sat down on the cot and cradled Soon-Lee’s limp body, hands caressed the girls sweaty face and hair pushing it aside into something more orderly. Soon-Lee’s face was incredibly pale, lips chapped and nearly white, Francis wondered if she were not already deceased.

“Is she – “

Rosie’s head immediately jerked in the negative, still tending to the unconscious Soon-Lee, she straightened her dress and pulled it down, covering the bruises.

Francis hesitated, ventured to ask the obvious, “Who did this?”

Rosie gripped Soon-Lee’s hand, and bit out, “G.I., who else, soldier only know how to destroy.”

“What do you need?”

“Medicine,” Rosie said, “she is sick.”

Francis nodded, he had almost no idea what was ailing Soon-Lee, but just by looking he could tell she had been battered brutally. He’d learnt _some_ basic triage through osmosis working in the MASH unit, things that ringside triage didn’t teach him.

Francis moved closer hesitated, rethought it, and asked, “May I?”

Rosie nodded.

Francis lifted Soon-Lee’s eyelid, her pupil immediately dilated, and took that as a good sign. Didn’t get too excited as he felt for a pulse that was jumpy and erratic. Deliberated with himself on what to do next, if he should palpate Soon-Lee’s ribs and abdomen for fractures or ask Rosie to do it and save the girl further trauma. Francis asks Rosie to do it, gives her simple instructions and leaves the room, as Rosie undresses Soon-Lee to look for bleeding.

There are no fractured ribs, and no bleeding, as far as Rosie can tell, but she’s still unconscious which is worrisome. Francis has no idea what to do about that, but he knows who does.

He shakes Hawkeye awake roughly, perhaps a little too roughly, but Francis has had a long night. Asks Hawkeye a long list of diagnostic questions, that if the surgeon were fully awake would be extremely suspicious instead, they’re brushed off in lieu of Hawkeye’s desire to get back to sleep. He returns with medications from the supply closet – Radar hadn’t even twitched when he took the keys – and gives them to Rosie with the instructions that Hawkeye gave him.

Francis returns to bed, hopes Soon-Lee recovers, hopes it’s the only time. It isn’t, not by far.

He’s chewing languidly on a piece of steak, he asks Hawkeye if it’s Friday and he reassures him that it isn’t, but Francis is spitting out blood in the ring, he works his jaw around the plastic mouth guard, chewing. The ringside medic gives him water that he swishes in his mouth and spits out, and the medic massages his back, tells him it’s fine and to _knock the fuck out of that bastard._ Francis sucks on his teeth and swallows a mouthful of blood, as Hawkeye rubs circles on his back, and tells him that the nausea is “Just a concussion, padre, nothing to worry about.” But he’s had concussions before and this is different, and he’s vomiting bloody steak, and spoilt milk, on Hawkeye’s shoes, and the ringside medic slaps him on the back and tells him to _suck it the fuck up._

Gail, hugs him, hands rubbing ovals on his back and all he can think of is the spoiled milk sitting at the back of his throat and that Gail wasn’t really hugging him, only the idea of him. What she wanted he could never give her. He _sucks it the fuck up and_ tells Nurse Harris she might need to find a new study partner.

He’s standing in the doorway of a bedroom and Siobhan is getting dressed – and he may have lied to Hawkeye about past relationships, but Hawkeye also wasn’t entitled to every detail of his life – and she’s pulling on her top, buttoning up the teal hotelier uniform. Siobhan pushes past him, on her way to the kitchen and coffee pot, she is ignoring him, expression scrunched to one of deep thought.

Francis moves to speak, but she beats him to it, “I don’t want to talk about it,” Siobhan pours a mug of coffee, sets the mug down with a clatter and rushes back to the bedroom pulling on a skirt and culottes. 

Returns to the kitchen and takes a gulp of coffee, Francis ventures now, “I think we need to discuss – “

Siobhan whips around, long brown hair following the movement, hasn’t fixed it yet, “I told you already, and I’m not repeating myself.”

Francis tries to negotiate, anything, “I’m sure there’s a way, we can make it work,” he said, and hated the way it sounded, like he was begging.

Siobhan leaned against the counter, “And what have you shipped to God knows where and confuse my kids,” she said, raising her hands in emphasis, “you said yourself, the Jesuits could send you wherever they wanted whenever they wanted, so no.” Siobhan, picked up the mug, something for her hands to do.

“I did, I did say that,” he responded, her logic was sound, and he didn’t want to argue against it. Francis wanted what was best for the kids as well. Crossed the kitchen and hugged her tightly, resting his forehead against her shoulder, Siobhan wrapped her arms around his waist.

“I love you,” he said, with finality.

She didn’t respond, only held him tighter.

Francis clenched his fist, knuckles red and stinging from impacting the soft jaw of a young soldier, Hawkeye rubs his back and it’s nothing like when the ringside medics slapped his bare back, all sweat and blood in congratulation, a job well done. This is solemn, chiding, a silent acknowledgement and more painful than any blow he had ever received in the ring.

Each touch like a modified blow, a bare-knuckled brawl in Rosie’s bar turned into an intimate embrace in a kitchen, last goodbyes and reassurances turned into fevered kissing and fucking, flesh on flesh impacting like the next blow in a boxing ring. Helping resolve a fight in the post OP turned into screaming and a head slamming into his abdomen, it was astonishing how often moments of tenderness were twisted into brutality, pushing out warmth and compassion.

He is sitting in the courtyard of the convent Sister Marie Angelica has lived in going on several years, looking down at his hands still callused despite years of light work in the seminary – years of boxing don’t go away easily, the blood stays on his hands. Adjusts the wide brimmed hat on his head, blocks out the sun, can hear shoes across the cobbled yard. A nun picks flowers across the yard ignoring his presence, a figure appears. 

“Francis, what have you gotten yourself into now?” says Sister Marie Angelica, looks up squinting at her, and she cuts quite the Anglican figure against the sunlight, pious and severe, but he knows it’s only that – a cut out.

He digs a piece of paper out of his pocket and hands it over, his sister takes it, appears to read it for a minute.

“I guess you aren’t going to claim yourself as a _conscientious objector_ otherwise you wouldn’t be here,” she says, passes the summons from the draft board back.

“No, I’m joining.”

Sister Angelica looked at him with an icy expression, no longer siblings, but colleagues “You have a terrible attraction toward bloodshed,” she said, eyes a piercing blue as she spoke, “perhaps you should try kindness first,” Sister Angelica added, “…but I know you’re too accustomed to using your fists to bother.”

Francis stood up, gripping the saturno trying not to bend the brim in annoyance, bit down on a caustic response and exited the courtyard.

It was true, he thought, standing where it all began in front of the abandoned schoolhouse, Col. Potter was correct, Francis could have died - probably should have court martialed him. Loath he admits it but faithfully hoping that those nameless fellows who were delivering the medicines and supplies were not going to one day not show or shortchange him, it was naïve.

But he was beyond that now, taking off his hat as Muldoon pulled up in a jeep and two LIPs exited after the MP. Muldoon walked briskly toward Francis, didn’t slow down as he got closer and Francis barely got a chance to react as Muldoon unbuckled the holster and whipped the pistol across the side of Francis head.

Francis temple exploded in pain, the blow sent him staggering back, vision whiting out, and unable to fight back as Muldoon whipped the pistol down again against the back of Francis’ head – a sickening crack ripped through the otherwise silent field. The blow sent Francis to his knees in a daze, the pain overwhelming, barely holding onto consciousness as it was, Muldoon kicked him in the stomach. Francis wheezed at the brutal blow, air rushing out of his lungs in one swoop, organs bruising at the sudden abuse.

Vaguely he registered the metallic leather click of the pistol being holstered and suddenly his face being wrenched upwards by Muldoon’s meaty hands, jaw being crushed painfully under the force of Muldoon’s grip. Could feel sweat dripping profusely down his face, so much that it felt like putting his head under a showerhead, a drop fell into his eye, it stuck closed.

“Aye, that’s quite a bleeder,” Muldoon crowed, shaking Francis’ head for emphasis, “That’s for taking my pistol, remember that,” the MP said, slapping Francis cheek like he was a schoolboy in need of remedial lessons.

Muldoon backed up a few steps, Francis swayed at the lack of support nearly tipping over completely before one of the LIP grabbed him by the collar steadying him. The action while saving him the embarrassment of falling on his face cemented the reality that he was now literally at Muldoon’s mercy.

He’d rather fall on his face at this point.

“Padre, you broke our deal, and that is not acceptable,” said Muldoon, hand resting on the pistol and Francis knew with certainty that if Muldoon wanted to shoot him he would have, “you broke the terms of our deal,” Muldoon waved a finger, Francis barely followed the movement head buzzing from the successive blows, “I said no face to face meetings.”

A pressure was building behind his eyes - a headache from the pistol slamming into his head - and he thought he heard something break but he couldn’t be sure. The wetness in his eye was blood, if Muldoon could be believed, could feel it seeping into his collar and in his ear.

“Are you listening?”

His abdomen hurt, but it was a low ache, it was manageable so not the worst pain, could ignore it for now.

“What are you dumb?” yelled Muldoon, rounding on Francis grabbing him by the collar and backhanded him across the face before lifting him and slamming him into the ground. Francis entire body protested the abuse, head ringing with the pain, skull throbbing with the impact against hard packed dirt. Francis did the only thing he _knew_ to do in this situation and protected his face the same way he would in the ring, made himself small, protected his organs.

Muldoon was undeterred, past caring about the broken deal and now only fixated on what he saw as the opportunity of a lifetime. Debasing a man of the cloth, perverting the authority of the church, and finally spiting on everything his schoolmasters ever taught him. Muldoon grabbed Francis’ ankle and dragged him away and out of the fetal position he used to hide in that Muldoon found cowardly.

Francis kicked at Muldoon’s hand as soon as he began to drag him away – to where he didn’t bother to _think_ – Muldoon let go and he stood up, swayed and staggered, blood rushing dangerously. Vision darkening as he fell to his knees again and staggered back to standing position and tried to escape, and ran, one of the LIP tackled him and they fell over.

Francis head hit something solid as a dull echo warbled and his face burst in white hot pain, and he could barely move to offer resistance, he felt a hand wrench his ankle and drag him away. Francis’ eyes roved in search of the LIP that tackled him but found no one there – did locate the object he crashed into, the bell, he stared fixated at it, at the streak of blood on it, _his blood._

Muldoon’s face swam in his line of sight, cutting off his field of vision, Francis’ looked back up at him eyes glassy, knew his limits, didn’t think he could take another hit without losing consciousness.

A hand smacked his cheek and Francis jerked on instinct, not out of any real awareness, blinked and Muldoon was uncomfortably close to Francis. The MP’s expression one of malice, gripped Francis’ jaw, he groaned in protest, Muldoon’s head tipped back mouth twisted, and spit at him.

Francis could barely register it before Muldoon’s fist connected with his face in a white burst of pain and passed out.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> many truths told, no told truths

“You still there?” said Sidney, sitting beside Francis. It was almost nightfall and he could see a white light flickering in the distance, in the thick of trees and bushes. The darkened camp behind him only served to bring the wavering pinprick of light into stark relief.

Francis tilted his head, acknowledging, hummed in the back of his throat. Thought perhaps the flickering ember in the distance was important somehow.

“Save any souls recently,” said Sidney, pithy examining Francis in that way he did with all his patients, with focus and intent.

“Only if they wanted to be saved,” replied Francis.

[and sometimes when they didn’t want to be]

The light flickered in and out, in and out, black and white, darkness and light, rapidly before returning to a steady burning wick in the distance. Wondered if it was a wounded soldier calling out for help and if he was currently bleeding to death, injured and afraid, sick with fear that he’d die in the middle of nowhere only to be found just miles from a mobile army surgical unit.

How fucking pathetic would that be.

Decided for his own sanity that it would be better if it was an enemy soldier, staring them down the barrel of his gun. That made a much better story.

“Comes with the job, Francis, people have to come to you and at that point – “Sidney trailed off, letting the natural silence of nature – and war – fill the unsaid. In the distance, Francis could make out the rhythmic _pop, pop, pop!_ of gunfire, could time it by his watch when one side ran out of ammo – shelling punctuating the minute silences – not that it was possible to tell who was doing the shooting.

Sidney waved a hand, as if to illustrate his point, and groaned, “I need a smoke,” and Sidney wasn’t much of a smoker, only ever smoking in social situations or after talking with a particularly difficult patient, scraping out that layer of grime from his mind.

Francis looked at him, dragging his gaze away from the flickering light – probably not a dying soldier – to do so, “You never smoke,” Francis said, as he dug out a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his pocket. Shook the packet and gave Sidney one and decided he might as well have a smoke too.

“Yeah, because it’s incredibly unhealthy,” replied Sidney, placing the unlit cigarette loosely in his mouth.

Francis nodded, “And yet you smoke anyway,” he said before – taking a quick glance at that light – and lighting his cigarette _(and remember boys, cover your damn lighters)_ hand hiding the flame so as to not alert snipers to their position.

He hummed in his throat, a distinct sound of _I think you should see someone about that,_ kind of silent speaking. Sidney rolled his eyes, scooted closer, craned his neck, head tilted, so it would be easier as Francis leant forward to light Sidney’s own stick. Sidney held his hand up to shield the lighting of the cigarette from snipers, as Francis puffed and orange embers spread from his cigarette to Sidney’s and it lit.

* * *

Felt what he thought was a coarse tongue scrap his cheek roughly pulling at the skin, lapping up blood oozing out of his cracked skull. Rest of the feeling in his body returned and he could feel the whole of his body throbbing and aching, ribs and abdomen felt like one giant bruise with each shaking breath. A worried tone penetrated the thick fog of his pain, but couldn’t make out what it was saying. The animal continued licking at the blood, and his head jerked pushing deeper into the dirt, as the thick pink tongue manipulated his head to a better position, lapping up the moisture from his blood.

Wrenched his eyes open, gummy blood slightly glued them shut, now lying on his stomach, prone and imagined he looked quite dead. Blood and dirt, smeared across his face, skin pale with blood loss and immobile, limbs twisted from what he imagined was Muldoon delivering more abuse in his unconscious state.

Hazily tried to find the source of the voice he heard, and saw two pairs of feet, couldn’t lift his head yet to see – much less focus his eyes – one broad pair of feet approached him and two voices spoke overlapping to a point that he couldn’t make out what they were saying and suddenly the animal which he now recognized as a cow was dragged away.

A hand gripped his clothes and pulled him roughly – in the same careless way Graves handled corpses – onto his back, the sudden change in position sent the blood in his head rushing, what little of it there was. Had to close his eyes against the spinning and push down the rising nausea. Knew this person patting down his pockets for money or weapons or rank insignia to sell would find nothing of value, besides a kit for emergency last rites and stole.

Sure, enough could hear the kit being thrown aside when it didn’t reveal anything of value. Couldn’t even conjure feelings of condemnation for this person. Tried to pry his eyes open, sluggishly they opened and closed, like weights were laid on top of them. Through the limited vision he obtained, could see the person was an elderly Korean man, frowning as he looked down at Francis.

Seeing Francis was still conscious the man turned and said something to someone Francis couldn’t see. Tried to turn his head, the movement caused his head to spin again and the nausea to return, like a fist in his throat. Had to turn on his side or else, he heaved, tried to move or signal to the elderly Korean standing what seemed now like so far away. Pleaded with his eyes, but only managed to appear as if he was gasping for air.

Managed to get his head turned barely in time as muscles contracted and tensed and vomit pushed its way out of his stomach and up his esophagus and into the dirt in a pool of chunky soup. That if he wasn’t quick enough to turn over would have choked him to death. Francis’ head spun in the aftermath of the episode, eyes drooping closed, mind heavy with the need for sleep, and he couldn’t think of a reason not to.

Something was making its way up again, his abdominal muscles tensed this time not as intensely and liquid came out, slipped out really, and the dirt turned into bloody red mud. Francis fell back exhausted from the episode, eyes sluggishly closing, _knew_ he should stay awake.

The elderly man approached Francis, knelt and pushed something into his hand that felt soft. Francis heaved, blood gurgled out the corner of mouth, felt a wrinkled hand cup his cheek, eyes rolled up as he heard a melodic chanting prayer.

* * *

There is the cloying taste of too sweet crab apples mixed at the back of his throat and the rancid scent of rotting meat, a man had just massacred a cow. Deep gouges traced by high-powered weaponry, tore violent strips of the animals hide, hanging off. Carrion flew in, hungry and eager to taste the meat provided to them by the sadistic cruelty of men.

He hears a confession from a soldier who shot a calf, but that hadn’t been true. Confessions were whispers told to priests in confidence – the seal of the confessional – by the repentant, the remorseful. Francis heard no such confession, knew that well enough, as he confessed all he had seen and heard to the priest in the 8063rd.

Tells the truth, or at least what feels like the truth to Father Charlie. Scraps off the grime of months ministering to the 4077th had built up. Spiritual decay eating at his soul from the inside out, from the outside in. Tells many truths, like that of, drinking and gambling and losing control, even the sex. All true in their own ways, and inspired remorse, like small cuts that irritated his insides.

Unburdens himself - skins himself - not unlike the flayed cow, vulnerable, mouth full of blood. Can’t help but feel guilty for burdening Father Charlie with his own sins and the sins of his own flock – confesses for them even when they wouldn’t do so themselves.

Hawkeye fashions himself a righteous man, of whom the war cannot touch, always refuting orders and bucking authority. Not allowing the dirt and obscenity and blood to cling to his skin with words, reasoning Francis supposed – that if the surgeon fought hard enough with ideas and words the war couldn’t affect him.

Hawkeye was righteous, but it was the righteous that the governments who declared wars wanted most. Righteous men didn’t get blood on them – not really – they killed, of course, but they remained virtuous, their goal remained noble. The cause remained unspoiled _because_ they were righteous, it was the righteous that were chosen to fight holy wars in antiquity, beliefs declared honorable for it.

What Hawkeye didn’t realize was men like him were everywhere completely convinced in their beliefs – fighting on the front on both sides, stitching closed bullet wounds and picking out shrapnel. While Hawkeye’s beliefs were directed with the all fury and anger of the righteous at ending the war, others had the same amount of energy or more directed toward continuing the war with a cold collected determination.

An apt adjective for _righteous_ in this context would be _blameless,_ or _innocent._ Who at the end of this war would be to blame if every man saw themselves as righteous?

Hawkeye was boiling, red hot with anger as he ground out from between teeth, “I thought you were different,” he shouted, arms flailing as he usually did and once the surgeon got started he could go on for hours.

Francis glanced at Hawkeye from his peripherals, they were in his tent, letting the young man have his tantrum in privacy. He guessed he was no longer, _the best priest he knew,_ but it was a sacrifice he’d been willing to make.

Hawkeye continued: “- should know better, why working with those scum, those lowlifes and,” Hawkeye made a strangled sound of frustration like he couldn’t find the words to illustrate his disappointment, “- it’s practically stealing from the four-oh-double-seven and patients could have died, do you understand that, Jesus!”

Francis couldn’t remember the last time Hawkeye cared about the army and whether it got supplies on time or not. In fact, the slower the army operated the better, if anything the slower MASH units operated, and soldiers returned to the front lines would make for a less bloody war. Almost appeared as if Hawkeye _wanted_ the war to continue.

Francis’ mouth twisted into a grimace, teeth grinding together, lips pulling into a straight line, “I do understand, _Pierce,_ do you?”

Hawkeye’s face turned into a familiar expression, the one of gobsmacked confusion he gave General’s he didn’t agree with – which was all the time. “Of course, I do, what are you talking about? I can’t believe this.” Hawkeye said, voice trailing off as he got a faraway look, several expressions flitted over his face, disgust, confusion, anger, and confusion again. It was like watching someone change their opinion on their parent in real time.

“I can’t believe this,” Hawkeye repeated, shouting this time, finger pointing and shaking, “I would never,” Hawkeye paused minutely, shook his head and changed track, “I can’t believe you would do this I know you better than that. This isn’t like you.”

“No, Hawkeye, you don’t know me,” we only know each other because we were assigned to the same unit in the same slice of Hell, “- you have no idea what _is or isn’t me.”_

And before Hawkeye could start throwing stones, Francis continued: “I would stop while your ahead of yourself Pierce, considering you’re the only one in this tent that has mutilated two healthy Generals because you were a little tired of saving lives.”

Hawkeye stepped back appearing as if stripped bare, “How did you -?”

Francis looked at Hawkeye, guileless blue eyes meeting Hawkeye’s own watery eyes, “BJ and Trapper felt considerable remorse for what they did…or didn’t do.”

Hawkeye’s expression was that of a man on the wall, no longer full of anger, eyes wide and darting around.

Francis noticed and relieved Hawkeye, “Relax, I didn’t tell the Colonel and what I confessed to Father Charlie is sealed in the confessional.”

Hawkeye looked even more panicked, “Why would you tell a pri _est?_ ” squeaked the surgeon.

Francis looked at Hawkeye, wondering if this was a rhetorical question, and answered slowly, “Because I’m a priest, that’s what you do.”

Hawkeye still didn’t appear comforted by that.

Francis rolled his eyes, “I didn’t tell Father Charlie what you did, if it helps, I only told him my sin.”

“What was that then?” said Hawkeye sounding intrigued.

Francis licked his lips, said, “Guess.”

Hawkeye’s eyes flicked around thinking, “Oh, for not snitching on me.”

“Something like that,” Francis said, and picked up a rosary – starting the first decade – effectively ending the conversation. Religion always made agnostics uneasy, as did war, preferring to stay on the theological and political fence when it came to confrontation. Unless of course, it came to their own beliefs, then there was no fence but their own.

By the time he finished the second decade – which wasn’t long, he knew his prayers – Hawkeye was gone.

* * *

And Francis was blinking his eyes open, dirt and gunk gluing them shut, felt something soft as silk wrapped in his hand, between fingers. The sun was dipping below the horizon, tinging the sky an array of pinks, reds and oranges, the last time he was conscious the sun had been at high noon casting no shadow. Now it was low casting long shadows.

Knew he had no choice but to either crawl his way to help or back to camp or to drag himself up to his feet. Head swam as he elbowed the ground, heel of his hand pushing into soft dirt as he pushed himself to sitting position. Waited and waited until the sky was turning purple for his head to stop swimming and nausea to dissipate, knew those wouldn’t go away. Clutched the stole in his right hand as he folded his legs and wobbled to standing position.

The skyline spun like a top in nauseating hallucinatory sensations, knew he wasn’t really spinning, though it felt like he was. Each step toward – the East, no West – had no sense of direction in his state, didn’t know which direction to take. Only walked and walked and walked, until his feet burned, and he felt blisters bursting on the soles of his feet.

Could no longer make out the skyline besides one pinprick of dark orange and bursts of fiery orange in the distance that he made out to be gunfire and the dropping of bombs. Except it was too late to turn around, had to find _someone_ didn’t even care if it was American or not. Each step sent a jolt of pain up his spine, head throbbing and vision blackening more and more as he ventured further not consciously paying attention anymore, only knowing that he had to keep moving.

Almost doesn’t register the truck plowing down the dirt road constructed by military engineers and stumbles out of the way, almost falls over, lands on his knees. The truck stops, and thank God, he sees a red cross symbol and a head pops out of the driver’s side, hand securing a helmet in place.

“Eh, what unit you from?” the man shouts hurriedly.

Francis isn’t sure he can speak, “Four-oh-double-seven,” he says shakily over the short distance and manages to stand again.

“Damn, how’d you get out this far, must be an FNG,” the ambulance driver says, contemptuously, and spits out the window, and slams his hand on the side of the truck. The back doors of the truck open, and the vehicle rocks back and forth with the force of it.

The driver yells, “Clear,” as a medic bolts out of the vehicle, head down out of instinct, grabs Francis by the arm and pushes him up and into the back of the ambulance. The medic pulls the door close with a bang and smacks the partition between the back and driver twice, the truck jerks as it pulls away.

From the front, the driver gives his assessment of the situation, “Got yerself a FNG, doc.”

The medic shakes his head, “Ugh, not another one, Mitchell,” said the medic as he flashed a light in Francis’ eyes and tracked the dilation of pupils.

“Look at ‘em, guys got, new guy written on his face,” said the driver, Mitchell, casually.

Francis wanted to refute the assertion that he was – and he had already known what the alphabet soup shorthand meant; it was a common complaint among Marines – not a Fucking New Guy but decided against it. Then the medic noticed his rank and then he recognized his insignia and much later the stole he was still clutching.

“Shit, this ain’t no fucking new guy, he’s a chaplain.”

“Oh shit, forreal, doc,” the driver, shouted.

“No shit, he ain’t a dodger either, he got a stole.”

“A what? You fucking with me, Roger.”

“No way, a real as fucking shit _priest,_ only real ones have stoles,” said Roger, already slipping the stole from Francis’ weak grip and holding it high enough that Mitchell could see it from the partition.

Mitchell whistled, “Damn, a chaplain, we haven’t had one of those on our ambulance.”

“No, shit,” said Roger, eyes wide, as he continued patching up Francis.

“Take good care of ‘im, then,” said Mitchell, from the front and the truck jerked as it sped up.

* * *

He’s standing in the OR, clutching his stole, a kit containing holy water is pressed up against his leg hotly and Hawkeye asks him a question, muffled by his mask.

“Tell me, Father, who goes to Hell?” says Hawkeye, as he digs in the bowels of a young soldier.

It isn’t really the time or place for a theological discussion – much less an elementary one. He answers anyway, tearing his gaze away from the gaping wound. “Sinners, I believe,” he says, a simplistic inoffensive answer.

“Exactly, and – “

Hawkeye gifts the OR with his own spin on a sermon and it amazed Francis how a supposed agnostic could have so much contempt for war and yet, have such a gift for rallying the troops around an ideal.

Frank said: War is Hell, everyone knows that.

Hawkeye countered, with his own thesis: War is war and Hell is Hell.

Yet, sinners went to Hell and no one besides the innocent went to Heaven – unless you were righteous, blameless. Then no one besides yourself and the innocent went to Heaven and everyone else a bystander, casualties in the name of a cause.

A weeks recovery at the 8063rd is all it takes – the surgeons inform him that his skull had been cracked along with broken ribs, perforated spleen, and that went without saying the bruises and concussion – before he’s back at the four-oh-double-seven.

The Colonel tells him to take it easy, Hawkeye is concerned but it’s clear he still harbors misgivings about the black market, BJ tries to treat him as normal but an edge creeps in his tone, Margaret is her usual self but a chip in her eye reveals that she sees him differently now.

Muldoon may not have killed him in front of that schoolhouse, but he might as well have.

Almost wished he had. 

* * *

A letter arrives for him, the return address is from the Quartermasters Office – to meet Colonel Lambert. Doesn’t question it, no one does, Col. Potter had the orders, it was official stamped and ironed out. The most efficient red tape and bureaucracy, no matter how much it didn’t make sense for a chaplain on the front lines to be ordered to the QO.

Francis enters the Japanese styled office – or more correctly Korean building built to the taste of Japanese settlers, now quartering American soldiers. Colonel Lambert lounges on the floor, at a Japanese style table, in a men’s kimono, behind him a sliding door decorates the wall.

“Come, sit,” Colonel Lambert, waves a hand with a flourish.

Francis narrows his eyes at the pillow on the floor, the extremely low table, looks at Lambert dressed in a kimono, and decided he’d rather stand.

Lambert smiled crookedly, eyes flinty, “Whatever you want, I guess. It’s a free country,” he said, leaning back.

Francis linked his hands behind his back, raised a brow, “Sir, this is Korea.”

Lambert guffawed, a thick wet sound, “Padre, you’re funny, a dry wit, just like Muldoon said.”

Francis tensed, eyes flitting around the room searching for an escape or a weapon, a pistol about to collide with his skull. Of, Muldoon coming around the corner to finish what he started, him spitting in his face.

Lambert’s meaty hand slammed the table, a fleshy thwack echoed, Francis’ hands tightened behind his back. The only reaction he’d give the man, though the still visible cuts and bruises on his face were enough.

“Seems like Muldoon gave you the beating of your life,” Lambert, _tssked,_ licking his lips, “though that doesn’t wipe away your debt, fortunately for me,” the Colonel said, waving a hand which summoned a woman into the room, she set down two glasses, poured sugary drinks.

“Now, how about you sit down for me,” said Lambert.

Francis teeth clicked together, didn’t move.

Lambert gazed up sharply at him, pulled a silver revolver from under the table, metal clattering against faux wood, a plastine echo.

“I don’t like to repeat myself, padre,” said Lambert, gestured with his head minutely.

Slowly, Francis sat legs crossed, never letting Lambert out of his sight as he did so.

“Have a drink?” said Lambert, and it was a threat, thick fingers tracing the silver curves of the revolver.

Francis blindly picked up the drink to his right, the glass sweating and clouded with condensation could already smell the sweet concoction as it neared his nose and mouth and took a drink. Saw Lambert’s hand tighten on the revolver and drank the rest until Lambert’s trigger finger relaxed and the gun was put away.

The drink had just been soda, Ne-hi adjacent almost homemade like lemonade – cherry soda fizzled in his stomach and buzzed at the back of his eyes and throat, pressing down. Eyes burned, head swam like it had been removed from his shoulders and only a remaining cord of muscle attached the head to his shoulders. A light bounced off the gun, eyes burned at the sensation like the crushing light of God, and his brain buzzed audibly with the sight.

“My own concoction, homemade,” said Lambert, “like it,” said the man, and Francis had completely forgotten he was there. Didn’t know what Lambert was talking about, just felt like nothing mattered anymore not when he felt this good.

Lambert’s mouth twisted maliciously, “A mixture of muscle relaxant, morphine,” a thick wet chuckle washed over the room, “a lot of morphine, and a combination of some other things.”

Francis’ spine felt like warm butter and he knew, _knew_ it was inappropriate to slouch and that Lambert was a threat but sitting up right was not an option anymore. He let himself slide down, cheek pillowing on the table, the surface of which was blissfully cool against his fevered skin.

Felt a thick hand squeeze his face and elevated his head until Francis was looking into Lambert’s eyes, dark with lust, “That’s better, much prettier like this.”

Francis blinked slowly, trying to process the series of words, only getting a twinge of _something is wrongwrongwrong,_ and rolling in his stomach, that he felt hopeless to identify as whatever was flooding in him was quick to replace the sensation with _How can anything be wrong when you feel like_ this.

And then his head was brutally slammed into the table and hands were dragging him across the table, head hung over the edge painfully had no muscle strength to lift it. The edge of the table dug into his neck, staring at green khakis, head buzzing, limbs pleasantly tingling.

That same hand pulled his hair roughly, so brutally that he thought Lambert must have pulled some hair out, but he barely felt a thing. Fingers carelessly shoved into his mouth, getting slick with saliva, thrusting in and out and in, until he started drooling and it spilled from his mouth and down his face.

And for a second, he had moment of clarity, followed by dread, as Lambert pulled out his cock and the drugs pulled him back into a deeper haze.

And all he could feel was his body moving and the edge of the table digging into his neck, so much so that he thought his neck would snap with the brutality. And heard Lambert grunting disgusting obscenities that he tried not to listen to but heard anyway.

“ _Fuck,_ you a cocksucker, padre, ain’t got a gag reflex,” and Lambert sped up, brutality increasing with the realization as if it excited the man.

His head spun, drugs wearing off, neck twisted unnaturally, tears coming unbidden from his eyes falling into his hair line. And it was like he was suddenly dumped into this reality, couldn’t recall how or why this was happening, as the man on top of him violently thrusted and his head snapped back, body jerked.

Nails dug into the table, digging up wood as the man violently jerked him back and forth and he held on. One nail already broken in a burst of pain, blood smeared the table, Lambert dug his own blunt nails deeply in Francis' skin for that. Eliciting a muffled scream of pain, and tears.

“Are you crying? Fuck, that’s hot.”

The man’s thrusts becoming faster and more careless, more brutal and Francis hoped that meant he was –

A tongue licked the corner of his eye, into his eye.

“Tastes like fear,” said the man, and heard the man moan and thrust so violently that he passed out from the sheer pain.

* * *

Comes to on a bed – can’t recall how he got there – a woman is standing over him holding a wet towel. Mouth turned down, expression impassive, he tries to speak but it all comes out in one croak. She dabs the towel on his side, it comes away red.

He is angry, teeth clenching and grinding down to dust, how can he be a Shepard when he has this much blood in his mouth. There is a rotting carcass in the middle of the road, he looks into the coal black eyes beside him, they used to be blue – or was that someone else.

And he takes a bite, a savage feral bite of meat and doesn’t care that it is Friday, and grinds it between teeth, and digests it in his stomach and vomits it and he is wasting away. Chews the delicate consecrated bread and eats God and lets Him dissolve in his stomach, along with the meat, sugary crab apple, cum, spoiled milk, and sugary drinks.

Coal black eyes bore into him, her mouth is turned down, an anger burns in those eyes – a heat he recognizes. The same anger and bite Rosie had in her voice and expression as she cradled Soon-Lee, the same guarded expression several the nurses held in their eyes, a weariness of the world. A sort of ferality, like a nervous dog, that could bite at any second.

She says, he can call her Aiko – doesn’t think that’s her real name – says she can call him anything she wants. Calls him, John, he says, how did you know that, she says, it’s on your file, he shrugs in defeat.

Can taste rotting spoiled milk, and carcass of a cow shot dead, rolling in his stomach. His head swims, filmy light filters through blinds and rice paper, the building unable to decide if it’s western or eastern. Military or civilian. Japanese or Korean.

Can’t decide who he is anymore - Francis or John.

Can’t place where he is or how he got there, in the MASH vomiting into a hole, and eating raw steak, and holding a grenade to his chest. Now it was all reversed, the grenade was in his chest, and the steak was cooked, and the vomit went into the toilet. And his teeth clenched as his hair was pulled, and his head swam in a haze and he screamed.

Aiko stared at him, took a drag of a cigarette, and spoke, “This place used to be my grandparents.”

Looked at her out the corner of his eye, and slide down further in the chair, and inhaled and exhaled. Smoke mixed and clouded the sunlight on the balcony. Aiko picked up an orange from the bowl and started peeling the fleshy rind.

John tilted his head, asked, “Japanese grandparents?”

“No,” she said, and handed him an orange slice, “here.”

Takes it without thinking and feels the juice burst on his tongue, it’s the most he’s eaten in days.

He splits the Eucharist in half, blesses it and shares the bread of God with the congregation. And by the time the orange is eaten, Aiko is finishing her cigarette, a look of calm passes over her face.

“No one deserves to live in this place anymore,” she says, putting out the stick.

And the latrine is shelled, and he has a concussion and he doesn’t think it is because he’s had them before, and Hawkeye is _wrong._ And he should have screamed right then and there, but he didn’t, and he can taste tangy oranges, and something is burning, and the air is permeated with the ripe scent of a sex and iron.

Aiko looks at him an expression of pure relief on her face, she sighs, her face illuminated in oranges and reds.

He can’t breath and he’s screaming and Lambert is choking him and he thinks he might just die this time, until Lambert jerks and the man’s throat bulges and a knife explodes through his trachea, and white muscle and blood showers down Lambert’s chest and John’s chest.

Lambert chokes and gurgles and falls over and John sees Aiko, blood sprayed on her face and chest, she holds out the knife, an offering. Lambert is still breathing when he, _for this bountiful feast we are about to receive,_ and he splits the man in two, _on this day thank you and Amen._

He doesn’t say the last rites.

He is languidly eating the Eucharist, a raw feast provided by the Lord, he looks over at Aiko, newly baptized, enjoying herself and full. They are standing outside of the Quartermasters Office, former Korean household, former Japanese settlement, soon to be former Quartermasters Office of the USMC. The top floor windows are already smoking, it’s was too late for them. They were already dead. 

They are standing in the middle of the road, Aiko, newly baptized and wearing a veil, he says, everything will be fine no one will question it, she says, how do you know that, he responds, because people are squeamish when it comes to religious matters, she looks skeptical, and you have experience with this.

And he does, no one bothered to ask questions when he worked with the black market, about missing supplies, could have outright said he was working for them before and nothing would have happened. They would have given him the benefit of the doubt. It really was astounding to him.

And now, look where that got him.

But that wasn't him anymore - _not.any.more._


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [ Dogs will howl like a god]

His fingers are spreading the slimy white muscle of a soldier’s trachea, and he’s sliding a piece of plastic to give back the boy the ability to breath. And he’s putting his finger in the torn trachea of a Colonel, and it practically sucks his finger in, blood gurgles out, bubbles filled with precious oxygen form and pop as soon they’re made.

The Colonel makes a hissing sound deep in his chest, rattling wet and thick, a familiar sound of death. All the oxygen the man tries to gulp in, escapes through the hole in his throat – the opposite problem the soldier had. The only thing allowing the Colonel to breath is John’s finger plugging the hole in his throat.

It is simply too bad that he is not a doctor.

Removes his finger from the hole it emits an obscene wet squelching sound, blood oozed out of the tear. John leaned forward, cupped the dying Colonel’s face – blood smeared on the man’s face, and John spit in his face.

And watches as the blood leaks from the man, like a nicked artery, wants him to feel helpless, struggling against an unseen force. To feel the panic, the stupid animal fear of fighting against the inevitable.

“P -pppl…” the Colonel pleads, and John knows exactly what he wants, only feels contempt, eyes narrowing, mouth twisting.

War is war and Hell is Hell, and only the innocent went to Heaven.

John leans forward, wipes stinking sweat from the man’s forehead, smiles guilelessly, “Everything will be okay, you’re in God’s hands now, my son.”

The man’s eyes widen, seemingly distressed by the notion of meeting the Creator, breathes harder, blood oozes from the wound.

“Aa- abso,” the man tries to speak, blood pouring out of his mouth, ears, and eyes.

John frowns, shaking his head at the man’s futile attempts, “No, no, shhh. None of that now, save your breath for Saint Peter.”

This only worsens the man’s attempts to speak, “Abssssolooshin.”

John’s expression is blank as he says, “Absolution isn’t for scum like you.”

And he’s killing a soldier on the front lines, denying him the ability to breath and saving a rapist in a building that can’t decide if it’s Japanese or Korean with a woman equally as confused. He’s giving absolution to a confused boy that’s just mutilated a cow, and he’s languidly eating grass, but it’s the flesh of God.

And he’s gagging on blood-soaked fingers and a cock is being shoved down his throat and Hawkeye is telling him it’s all okay, it isn’t his fault, because he vomited cum on his shoes, but that isn’t right. That isn’t how it happened.

Is it?

He’s standing in a field and a baby is crying and Sister Margerite says it can’t stay because it’s mixed and its crying so fucking loudly and he just wants it to shut up and he realizes there are multiple babies all crying all the time, and a little girl is standing hands stained with blood and a soldiers neck is throbbing with blood, the trachea is visible, muscle pulsing.

Francis is doing the last rites for a soldier whose chest and stomach are leaking steadily, glassy blue eyes stare unseeing at him. John stares into glassy blue eyes, waiting for the Colonel to draw his last breath, and doesn’t say the last rites.

His silence speaks louder than any gunshot.

He is laying in the dirt bleeding and fearing that every breath will be his last and he is nauseous with the thought of it. A soldier punches him in the face, and he punches back, knuckles stinging with the force of it. And Muldoon is cracking his skull with the butt of a pistol and he can taste, sugary apple pie and soda on his tongue. And Lambert’s pistol reflects the light and he can feel God’s light burn his retina’s hollowing him out.

As he punches a soldier in the ring, and cracks his skull, and pulls the trigger and shoots himself. He cuts a tiny incision in the soldier’s trachea, and splits the skin open, searches for that white muscle and cuts deeper and deeper and deeper until he can see through to the litter and watches the soldier bleed to death because he could.

And John watches the Colonel struggle to breath and says, not the last rites, but _for this bountiful feast we are about to receive, thank you Lord, Amen,_ and allows Aiko to bathe the lush furniture and Japanese decorations in lighter fluid and watches as she lights it all on fire.

Watches, expression apathetic, as the soldiers locked in the building screamed, and jumped from the window, fatigues flaming, and couldn’t take his eyes off the look of relief on Aiko’s face.

All the soldiers were already dead.

Everyone at the MASH, saw him differently now, Muldoon had killed him a long time ago.

He is saying the last rites over a soldier in Latin, they are dead words for a dead soldier. Dead words from a dead soldier to a dead soldier.

The hill is called Jeoldusan, he asks what that means, Aiko responds, it means mountain of beheadings. They are standing at the foot of a monument to hundreds of martyred Korean brothers and sisters. A statue depicting those beheadings stands above them, overlooking Han river. It is both veneration and warning all at once.

He nods looking up the hill, at the native architecture of the shrine and moves on. Should be trying to return to the four-oh-double-seven but can’t seem to find the energy to return, wonders vaguely if they think he’s dead. Can scarcely imagine the telegram sent to his sister. First, they’ll think he’s AWOL, and surely declare him MIA, and finally dead. Marched to death up north.

Frowns staring at a dirty ceiling, thinking of the process that was so military, which had led him to this. Being dead on paper was as good as being dead in reality, according to the military. Always standing at the bottom of the hill, five miles behind the front lines, one day it was hill 405 then hill 406, from one to the next.

Taking a blade to the throat of a soldier and cutting it open and spreading slippery white muscle. The boy couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe. Muldoon is cutting him open, a cruel grin spreading across his face, cuts his jugular and his neck hurts and aches and he can’t breathe, and it feels like his neck is about to snap. Milky white liquid spills out of the wound sluggish and chunky and its spoiled milk, and pain spreads across his skull back to front and the urge to scream is stifled by something obstructing his throat.

John wakes up screaming, Aiko is staring at him, and wishes desperately that Muldoon had killed him.

He’s standing in a cemetery hands linked at his back beside his sister, as the rest of the family gathers around the grave. It had been one year to the date since his father died, looked at the headstone through his peripherals, and still no one knew what had really happened.

It was all wrong.

In the kitchen, washing his hands of blood, the shotgun, his father hadn’t moved in hours. His face was gone, smashed in. Kathy looked at him said they had to go, no, he did, and they left.

“What’s this? What’re you two doing here?” says someone, looks up and its Jack, his brother, expression shadowed with grief and – sees the flask in Jack’s hand – inebriation.

“We’re mourning,” answers, Kathy, “as we all are.”

Jack jerks his head, frowns bringing out deep wrinkles on his forehead, he squints at them suspiciously, “Full of shit is what you are,” he says, running a hand through thinning blond-white hair.

“We only came to –“

“Bullshit,” shouted Jack, waving a hand.

“What’s going on here?” sounds a voice from a distance, cutting through the tension and the carefully lined up gravestones.

Jack whipped around, “Danny, thank fuck, look who decided to show up.”

Danny, stepped over one last gravestone, looked up and frowned slightly, “Calm down, Jack,” he said, pressing wrinkles out of his uniform, “I’m sure they have a good explanation,” and nodded minutely, at that, “right?”

Francis nodded back, “We came for the same reason you did.”

Danny rolled his eyes, “I know I heard you all the way down by the O’Brien’s tombstone.”

“No, we came to mourn,” Danny pointed a finger, other hand resting on his belt, the leather creaked, “you came to –“ his mouth twisted, too many words fighting for dominance in his throat, “- to fucking make sure he was rotting in Hell.”

Francis blinked rapidly, and stepped forward, trying to close the distance no longer yelling across the cemetery.

“No, I would never,” he said, hands now fists at his side.

“Please, Johnny, you’re a terrible liar,” said Jack.

“Oh, then If I’m such a terrible liar dad wouldn’t even be buried in this cemetery,” Francis said, feeling no small amount of satisfaction.

“The fuck are you talking about?” said Jack, inebriation preventing him from making the connection quickly enough.

Which didn’t stop Danny from making the instant connection, as he snarled and yelled, “You son of a bitch,” and lunged across the grave.

As most impromptu fights went it was quick and dirty, and all completely below the belt, and ended with Kathy and Jack pulling them apart.

“I’m so sorry, we meant to tell you but – “said, Kathy, gripping Francis’ by the armpits, pulling him further away.

“Shut up, I swear to God if you weren’t a girl,” snarled, Danny as he struggled against Jack’s hold.

Kathy’s eyes narrowed, “Or what? You’ll hit me,” and let go of Francis, balled up her dress in one hand, and leaned down into Danny’s face.

“You dare hit a woman and you’ll wish you were never born,” Kathy snarled, and walked briskly away.

It didn’t take long before Francis followed her out of the cemetery, neither looking back.

Takes his time returning to the 4077th, bowing his head at the altar in a church – the only one – in Seoul hands clasped praying for something he can’t name. Aiko is looking at him, he’s just woken up from a nightmare.

Lifts her chin up, says, “You get those often?”

“No,” he says, and remembers Sidney trying to help, “yes,” he corrects himself. Feeling like he was somehow on both sides of the confessional, the confessor, and the confessee at once, like he was not himself at all.

Walks up to the altar, to the ornate stained glass behind it, kneels and genuflects swiftly, kneels on the wooden pew in front until his knees hurt, crosses himself in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

Aiko looks away, “Oh” she utters, in the slowly lightening room, looks back, “do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” he says, and feels like himself again.

There’s something off about the smell of the Church but he can’t name it. Can’t even name what he was praying for. A vague scent of eggs lingered in the Church he tried to erect in the MASH – this one was perfumed with incense, ash, and smoke, it was familiar but terribly unfamiliar. Longed for the smell of gun oil hanging in the air and powdered milk and canvas.

Stands up, knees protesting at the movement, walks down two rows, and sits next to a woman wearing a delicate white veil, carefully stitched repeated designs decorated it. He was sure it meant something to the Korean Church but hadn’t the time to ask the parish-priest.

“I should return,” John says, adjusting his cassock.

Aiko shifted in the pew, and looked at him, “And you’ll take me with you.”

“Of course.”

Tells her that no one will question it, because laity get queasy when it comes to Church matters. Takes some doing and the breaking of a lot of rules, but they find a place that’ll sell them a uniform, all gray and white, and Aiko becomes Sister Angela.

They blend in with a group of French missionaries, the group acknowledges them, but otherwise ignores them. A priest and a sister are unremarkable amongst missionaries. The military transport takes them as far as the 121st Evac, from then on, they are on their own.

They are standing in the middle of a dirt road and a calf has been slaughtered and a soldier is laughing and says, he did it because he could. John can see the layers of flesh peeled from the animal like an orange, ready to be plucked from the lowest branch and eaten. This is not that, its raw meat, the white insides of the rind, that no one eats, bleeding, fingers sticky and wet with blood.

The soldiers move along, and the platoon is their escort to the MASH 4077th \- drags his gaze away from the mutilated cow – looks at the backs of the retreating soldiers and the boy-soldier, rifle held in hands, grip steady.

John looks into the lambent eyes of Colonel Lambert and forgives him, though he is already dead. Tangy orange bursts on his tongue, as he looks at the retreating back of a soldier boy and forgives him too.

The return to the 4077th is met with the usual manic energy of the unit, fast paced chatter and joy, incongruous to the atmosphere. The platoon he arrives with asks where the mess is, the CO, desperate to feed his men and bunk down. Potter and the soldiers disappear to the mess tent, and Hawkeye announces a party for the night, loudly waving an arm flashily, a passing soldier flinches at the movement.

It goes unnoticed, as does Aiko in the bustle, hanging back as hands touch him, rubbing his back and presuming, gripping his hands. Tries to push through it, push it down, and not flinch, pretends to be the same person for them, all of them.

Time passes, slipping past like through a sieve, and he’s in the mess tent, can’t believe he’s there like looking through someone else’s eyes. Moving someone else’s hands and legs. And he’s sitting down, and a cigarette is balanced in between his fingers and he’s staring into the middle distance, and Potter and Hawkeye are talking at the next table over. Can’t tell what it’s about, so ignores it for now.

Doesn’t go back to his tent the first night, sleeps in the supply tent, the bed smells like rotten cheese.

Time moves like molasses, slow and then fast, like years could fit in a day and months in a week. It’s agonizing, catches himself staring at a nail in the floorboard, trying to pray, concentrate on a single thought, but its always that same nail.

That same nail, and the calf peeled like so much meat, and all that blood and liquid and and the mountains and hills built on blood and the _you’re so much prettier like this_ and the suffering at every _fuck that’s hot,_ and the death and constant casualties and the helicopters and the broken promises and the grenades and sniper watching _tastes like fearsomuchprettierlikethat’shotIdon’tasktwice._

The sniper watching always watching like the crushing eye of God, piercing and pitying and knowing because God is ineffable, and his plan was not to be questioned. It was all planned.

Planned, John sighs to himself, looks up blearily from the cot, and sees a figure draped in white, and a voice speaks.

“It’ll be alright, you did nothing wrong,” and a hand softly holds his wrist, two fingers resting on his veins.

Jesus, he says, can’t tell if spoke or not, and whatever God-fever gripped him took over and his eyes rolled in skull and John caught a glimpse of a blur smeared face.

And he’s sitting in the tent smoking a cigarette held loosely in between fingertips and looks up through eyelashes at Sidney.

“Do you get it now?” says Sidney, siting in that way he does when he’s talking to a patient, and he can’t ignore it anymore.

He’s been peeled back layer by layer, like in confession, unveiled himself so thoroughly he doesn’t recognize himself anymore. Skinned himself, peeled like that cow.

Except there was never a cow, it was always the soldier-boy. The boy and soldier, and the rifle. The soldier and boy and rifle, all laughing, asking for forgiveness, flesh peeled back.

_Save any souls lately,_ said Sidney.

_Only if they wanted to be,_ he says, as the boy-soldier, peels his flesh back and the rifle _cracked_ cleaving the silence in half and the boys face exploded and meat and bone and _matter_ returned from where it came.

[and those that didn’t want to be]

Decides for his sanity it would have been better if a sniper had taken that shot. Except there was no sniper, no dark camp at night, no flickering light in the distance. Only had himself, this version of himself.

This one constructed like a bad translation of the Bible, all meaning, and intention lost in translation, tells stories and confesses to Sidney his version of events. His version of the truth, what felt like the truth, it wasn’t lying, no.

Sometimes stories have to be lies to be the truth.

And does it have to be the truth _truth_ if it feels true anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is going to be the last chapter because the inspiration for this fic has sadly dried up


End file.
